Peter Shaffer's play is normally presented as if it were opera. In the confines of this Victorian music hall, it inevitably becomes a chamber-work. But, although I miss the lush grandeur of previous stagings, John Doyle's use of actor-musicians both suits the piece and is far more aesthetically satisfying than in his extravagantly admired Sweeney Todd.

Part of the pleasure lies in seeing the play again. Long patronised by the snootier classes for making Mozart popular with a mass audience, Shaffer actually unravels with great skill the story of Salieri's destructive envy. More particularly, Salieri cannot forgive God for denying him the effortless genius which Mozart possesses. And, even though he has led a decent, sober life, Salieri discovers that "goodness is nothing in the furnace of art"; which is why he decides to strike back at God through Mozart.

All this comes across clearly in Doyle's production, which he himself has designed and which is played on a raised stage filled with dusty, gilt mirrors. But the great gain comes from the fact that the music is made before our eyes by the 17-strong ensemble. You could have a more perfect version of the adagio of the serenade for 13 wind instruments; but it is moving to hear the music created in front of us. And the moment when Mozart improvises on a formal Salieri march to compose what will become Non piu andrai from Figaro is enhanced by the fact that Jonathan Broadbent is playing it in the moment.

Doyle's use of a musical ensemble also disguises the fact that Amadeus is really a three-character play. And it contains, in Salieri, one of the best star parts in the modern repertoire to which each actor brings something different. With Scofield it was a steely panache and with McKellen an almost music-hall bravura. Without effacing the memory of either, Matthew Kelly endows Salieri with a pious worthiness. Large of stature and with a mass of silvery hair, he looks the embodiment of an official court composer; but he also suggests a man poisoned by the knowledge that Mozart is a genius. Kelly's forte, as seen in Of Mice And Men, is a lumbering decency; but here it is a decency destroyed.

With his mop of spiky blond hair, Broadbent also brings out Mozart's scatological blabbering and naive conceit: you can see why he would drive his court contemporaries to distraction. And Jess Murphy suggests both Constanze's love for Mozart and her complicity in her husband's botty-smacking baby-talk. But in the end it is less the individual performances than the ensemble music-making, under Catherine Jayes's supervision, that gives this Amadeus its own particular flavour.